lay your faithless head down in necessity’s cotton hand. there’s a love that never changes….

no matter what you’ve done. -aaron weiss.

looks like we’re at the end of our little portland journey. i’ve been soused, roused, i’ve been dreaming & screaming cuddling, puddling, trying, crying. new clothes and a band name that nobody knows. i’ve erected, connected and was brought back down. but my bricks haven’t moved a muscle. i imploded, exploded right there with you. i’ve sold cans and worn my throat out and sang the same songs over and over again. the waterfront on a sunny sunday afternoon. you find allah and christ in pretty girls on bikes. you find one old couple that doesn’t look down on the lowly lonely rambling musician. i started getting at most level three (out of 5) butterflies. and i don’t know if i’m done yet. i wondered the same about her. you can’t call em fuzzies here in portland, as caesar and I used to back home, cos there can be a bit of confusion about the sexual elmo fetish. i rediscovered that my friends are some of the greatest cats i’ve ever known. i lust to see my family, whom i’ve dubbed The Fighting 4077th, back in LA. i still hate LA, but i can never deny my base. my heart trust. i’ve never drank so much stolen beer. five cases of PBR. the tuning nut for the D string on my guitar has broken. i need plyers. my leather strap has burst. haven’t been able to tell if things are falling apart or becoming reborn. my heart felt good this last week. real good. it also sank like that old reuben james. i wouldn’t have it any other way. i love talking about God these days. i don’t secretly scoff in my head at people who are out and about glorifying God. well, it depends on who they are and why they’re doing it. mind you, i speak not of the fantastical landlord, but just of what is possible in everything good and beautiful around us. its really weird being torn between a place such as Portland, that you really want to stay in and at the same time you feel like its so much bigger than you, that you need to run and hide. but there’s so much beauty in all of that which is bigger than you. not even in a spiritual sense of the word. how do you fight a war you’re always training for? why have a father figure when you have a wind and a love that’s just as strong and big? subjective truth is a muhh-fucka. trying to see someone else’s visions can be hard. there are three empty bottles of busch and a button in my pocket that sort of look at me funny when my eyes ever meet them. i’ve laughed a lot more than i cried and when i cried it felt just as heavy as the laughter, just as good, and just as worth everything and everyone else that found me. one week i was served random swigs of alcohol by a lovely drunk audience that i actually think was one with every slurred syllable and strained scream. the next week i played for a crowd of between one and three, and it, as I was miserable. one moment, there was this awesome connection, one out of many, but for one moment you feel lighter and saner and happier, and then…i really don’t know what. its really all too difficult to get. but i get it. at least some of it. two days lasted seven weeks it was the best and weirdest seven weeks i’ve had in a long time. a voice around me had said that bad things were going to happen. and they sort of did, and they sort of didn’t. but lord if i don’t understand. cos i do. as much as i know i don’t, i know i do. or can, and will. and i accept all of it. as much confusion and pain and bewilderment there could be, there’s just as much love and understanding and forgiveness. in all of us. and i see that, and i think i can have that and use it. “…it’s all crazy! it’s all false! it’s all a dream! it’s alright.” mary and i still haven’t gone to the strip club. my former roommate was on his way back trainhopping into portland, and he still hasn’t shown up. i’m worried. so i know for sure that i’m coming back. when, and on what terms, i dunno. maybe everything. i’ll come back for everything. not to be established. just to live. maybe love. drink and play some drunk forgiveness songs. i know it’ll be soon. a lot of things that need to be finished and resolved and laughed about. so yeah. thank you everyone. i love you no matter what. i really really really love you.

hi ho.

never go to heaven without a fake ID and a handkerchief.

my head is filled to the brim with so many different broken ideas on who or what God is or was, it’s hilarious. along with that, different broken ideas on the lives of the people around me and the town i live in. i’ve realized so far that one of the probably primary lessons on all of this is that no matter how much you learn and know someone, you’re probably never will fully find anything or anyone out. and that could be the greatest gift of all, for some. all those things you can never know just could complete you or at most fill your cup enough to where you’re ready and willing to die anyday. for some this idea could be dangerous. but what’s life without danger? i’m slowly venturing into this direction. why have to die to see the great unknown when the great unknown is already here? whether heaven or hell exist or not, they’ll eat you alive. and so, life is fought off with life, insanity with insanity, and all the goodness within is recycled back to the earth. i’ve realized that in probably every single place on earth, humanity is much more evil, blessed, insane, and loving than i could ever imagine. just as it should be. you’ll never figure out true love but you’ll feel it and it’ll be true. you may never meet God but you’ll believe in Him, and God bless you for it. either way we’re gonna get worse, and one day the house orchestra will play some fucked up walking dirge, shooing us off stage. acceptance speeches can truly go way the fuck too long. we are that speech, along with every single thing that has ever lived or all that has yet to be born. whether anything exists or not we all do. and god bless us for it.

two new ideas from alex salcido.

Here’s a fun way to die. Move to a new town & get run over by a welcome wagon.

Something else that’s fun to do, start a fake cult. Take in any random weak, easily influenced child of a broken home or any angsty, emotionally overwrought teen, adult, and/or anyone suffering through a mid life crisis. First you have to buy a bigger house. You may need to sell some stuff. This is essential though. Sell your house, sell your possessions. Take these fucks into your home and connect with them. Fool them into believing you are the only true human being on this planet that understands them and is the only source of their salvation. Make yourself a beacon of light and love and have these guys bring in a few recruits, every now and then. Can’t save em’ all, though, it’s not that big of a house. Wait another year, while your church grows by the and pick a date. Make it February 23, 2010. This will be the great big mass suicide. Say it’s the first night in 2,035 years since the Hulpta Star of the Greske System, which about 145,897 light years away, will be visible. Now mind you, when beginning this cult you are going to have convince them that all forms of media are completely false and that every news reporter, public and political figure on the Earth are paid actors hired by the Government to control the masses. Now it’s well enough that some of this is half true, so this shouldn’t be too hard. Learn computer design and fake a few printable articles and manifestos when they’re not looking. This will keep them away from and disgusted with the internet, all newspapers and television, except for when Perry Mason comes on at noon, of course. Now when that special day comes, you’re gonna need to drink a lot of beer. I mean, alot of fucking beer. Don’t kill yourself, though. They’re gonna think you’re just impatient. Before you drink, tell the followers you need some alone time in the basement to harness the power of the Gods of Hulpta. You need to drink enough to fill ten giant pitchers with rich, steaming beer piss. This should take three hours. When you’re done, pass out. Wake up. The beer piss would already be stale. Take a spoonful of sugar to each pitcher. Go back upstairs and make the kids help you bring the special spacedrink up. Whenever you can, write some fake prayers and make up some awesome sacrificial ceremony. Kill a squirrel or something. Fuck em. This is so awesome. Take the squirrel’s blood and pour it into each pitcher until each of them are orange-ish. Take a page out of LOST and say that you need to go fifty feet below the city park to drink your cup and then turn a wheel that opens the gateway to the Greske system. All’s go. Tell them to go bottoms up at exactly 11:34pm(Hell’ O’Clock on digital clocks), you take your leave at 9pm on the dot. Now be sure to have a secret storage facility nearby that you can slowly but surely move all of your worldly possessions into over the time spent as leader. Have a secret bank account in the name of Sherman Pierce (MASH fans could get that), drain the motherfucker dry, take your cash and run like hell to the airport. Don’t go too far away to where they could find you by simply going the other way. Like if you live in California, don’t move to Hong Kong. But they shouldn’t find you. Your Sherman Pierce. But be safe. Anyway, you’ll be in a new part of the world, and by 11:35, they’ll have drank stale beer urine spiked with squirrel’s blood. The moral of the story is, people shouldn’t be so fucking weak and stupid. They just might thank you, whereever you are.